On Your Mind
by Radioheaded
Summary: House Hates to Dream. Oneshot.


House hates to dream. The Vicodin helps this; sends him into a state of blissful unawareness. If his mind slips, lets his subconscious come up with images and events, the medication in his bloodstream usually allows him to forget. House hates to dream, because it's always one of a very few scenarios.

The first is that he's running. He's healthy, moving fast through a park he doesn't recognize. But it doesn't bother him because somehow he knows just where to go; he turns right, then left, his breath coming quickly but steadily. It's a cool day, crisp; it must be almost fall because there's an expectant chill in the air. The leaves wait for it, holding their breath as they float away on the breeze. There are some on the ground now; a hard gust of wind lifts them up and he's running through a cyclone of colors; blood red leaves blow around him, joined by yellow and orange. But he can't take his eyes of the first batch, and a few are stuck to the hem of his shorts. He stops, bends over to brush them away, but they're stuck. His hands come away red, sticky and he's not sure what's happening but his leg hurts now; the leaves fall off his thigh, down past his knee and they're not solid anymore. They've become liquid; hot, insistent liquid that streaks down him, soaking his shoe, forming a puddle on the ground as he writhes in agony, praying to a god he doesn't believe in that someone will find him, will help him before it's too late.

This dream came a week before the infarction. It comes back every so often to haunt him, mock him. Why didn't he pay more attention to the ache in his leg? Why did he think he was invincible?

Stacy is in some dreams. They all start out the same; they're in bed, it's the weekend. She curls up, close to him and his front presses into her back. Her sigh is that of a content cat; she stretches before relaxing into him, breathing in their mixed scents and falling back asleep. He probably won't fall back to sleep, but lay with her, hold her. House doesn't let many people touch him, but when he does, he can be almost tender. His fingers trace up and down her shoulders and back absently; she mumbles in her sleep that it feels good and he closes his eyes, letting his fingers see for him. Her skin is smooth, unblemished; almost silk-like under his rough hands. She likes his hands; she tells him all the time. They're large, but delicate, and when they kiss he moves them through her hair and she purrs into his mouth, vibrates under his tongue. He loves this about her, the small quirks that only he knows about. He falls asleep with her, lets her warm body heat his and they're companions in unconsciousness. When he wakes up, she's gone. The sheets are different; the dark-blue checked pattern has gone, leaving in its place an onyx blanket so dark it seems that night covers him, keeps him in a dark prison. He remembers that black is not even truly a color; it's the lack thereof. Black takes colors in, absorbs them, and reflects nothing back. House wants to get up, get away from the strange bed, but when he pulls the sheets away, he reveals a single leg. His right leg is gone.

More times than he can count, House's own screams have saved him from this dream. Immediately upon waking, shaking fingers move down to a thigh that, though it is heavily scarred, is still attached. This dream leaves him soaking wet and so he showers, scrubs himself as hard as he can, washes away the nightmare that's absorbed into his skin. In the moments just after waking from this nightmare, he hates Stacy more than ever; the rage is so close to the surface that he wonders if he actually wanted her back or was just trying to break her like she broke him. House can figure out everyone else's motives, but his are sometimes a mystery, even to him.

The last dream is a frequently reoccurring dream that House doesn't mind, though this should worry him. He's sitting on a grassy knoll; it dips down sharply in front of him and ends in sand dunes, leading finally to a beach that can't be in America. The water is too clear, the color too blue. The smell of saltwater rises and greets him and he inhales, wondering where he is. But he forgets why he needs to know after awhile and lies back on the blanket under him. It's warm; he's not hungry or thirsty and the sun feels nice on his face. As he begins to feel drowsy, something blocks out the light of the sun. He looks up to see someone standing over him. It's Wilson. He sits next to House, laughs at his drowsiness. He usually wakes up quickly, but for some reason he's groggy, disoriented. House stretches, moves to get up, and finds that he can. Easily. He's excited now, yells at Wilson to come on already, and is off for the water. He undresses as he goes until he's down to swim trunks he didn't know he had on. They reveal two perfectly healthy legs and he's happy about it, so happy. He's not sure why it's such a big deal so he ignores the nagging in his head and watches Wilson look at him like he's nuts. But he's in the water now and it's warm, almost like pool water. He lets a wave overtakes him, swims like hell with it and he's pushed toward the beach, where Wilson is. House lands in the sand, rolls over and grabs Wilson by the ankles, dragging him in, ignoring the protests and eye rolling. They're in together, swimming with the waves, laughing at each other. Then they get tired, decide to go in. They lay in the sand together, looking like alabaster statues from the sand that covers them. They're close together and House moves firs, sliding closer until their salty mouths touch. The kiss is like the day, exuberant, fast. Sandy. House licks Wilson's lips, removing all traces of the ocean from his mouth. The dark eyes of the man under him close suddenly; Wilson's whispering in his ear that it's time for him to go, though he wishes he could stay longer. This is when House wakes up, always at the same place.

This dream is one House wishes he could stay in; he hates it for abandoning him, for ending so soon. For making him want something he can't have.

When the night is over and the day creeps forward, House will get up. He'll go to work and look for the tiniest details; the slightest hint that would allow him to move forward.

Minutia gets him through the day.


End file.
